


Blind Date Blind Side

by Wordsy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Background Grimmons, Blind Date, Chorus Trilogy (Red vs. Blue), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentions of alcohol, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self Confidence Issues, Tucker and Wash are roommates, Tuckington - Freeform, emotional angst, mentions of marijuana, mentions of recreational drug use, only platonic if you tilt your head close one eye and also close the other eye, other minor ships - Freeform, other minor ships mentioned, romantic, self hate, there is a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2019-06-20 23:43:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15544848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsy/pseuds/Wordsy
Summary: The truth is, war is the only place Wash has ever found a home in. And now that the one on Chorus is fading, he’s left free floating. Tucker's the only semblance of direction he's got.Little does Wash know, he's become Tucker's direction too.Or, Tucker and Wash are pining after each other from afar. Being set up on a blind date with one another should be the perfect ending to this story. Unfortunately, things do not go as planned.





	1. Chapter One

_ “You _ ’ve got a date?”

Carolina dumps her load of punching bags into the pile she and Wash are steadily building in a corner of the training room. Blowing a strand of red hair out of her face, she fixed him with a look. 

“Gee, thanks, Wash. Your surprise isn’t insulting at all.”

Wash drops his bag, throwing up his hands in surrender.

“Wha- No, no, no!” He sputters, “That’s not what I meant!”

An evil smirk ghosts across Carolina’s face. “Oh? What  _ did  _ you mean?” 

She takes a step closer, grinning. Wash backs away so fast he almost trips over a stray punching bag. 

“Look,” he says, straightening. “That came out wrong. It’s just that you’re...ah.”

Carolina raises an eyebrow. “I’d be  _ real  _ careful of the next words that come out of your mouth, Washington.”

“Oh, no, keep going,” Epsilon goads, materializing over Carolina’s shoulder. “I wanna see you try and dig yourself out of this one.”

Wash shakes his head and drags a hand over his face. “Nope. I’m done. Let’s skip ahead to the part where you zap me with your electric staff and call it a day.”

Wash walks away to finish collecting the punching bags strewn across the floor. But Epsilon crows after him. “Oooooh, no. You’ve made your grave. Now die in it.”

Wash rolls his eyes but says nothing, and stoops to heft a bag over his shoulder. 

Today’s training had been worth the exhaustive setup and clean up. The cadets’ hand to hand skills were improving. And the secret plan to have the News and Feds take out their aggression on punching bags rather than each other was a success.

Grabbing another bag by the chain, Wash hears Carolina murmur to Epsilon and the sound of the AI logging off.

Wash focuses on hauling his two bags across the room to the mountain building in the corner. Only moments later Carolina catches up to him with three bags of her own. Show off.

“What about you?” She asks.

Wash tosses his load onto the pile and Carolina does the same. “What about me what?”

“Has anyone asked you?”

Wash wipes his brow. “Hey, we’re not done talking about you. Who are you going with?”

“Vanessa,” Carolina answers, a touch smug. She tugs her arms over her head in a casual stretch, but the side eye she casts him is serious. “You didn’t answer the question.”

“What are we, thirteen?” Wash deflects. “This isn’t a middle school dance.”

“Still avoiding it.”

“Fine, no,” he huffs. “No one’s asked me.”

“Have you asked anyone?”

“No,” Wash admits. “Who would I ask anyway?”

His brain helpfully throws up a memory of dinner the night before, of Tucker laughing at some joke Wash made but now can’t recall. All Wash can remember is being stupidly proud of himself for making the teal soldier smile. The Freelancer’s stomach does a flip. He ducks his head, already feeling his face growing hot, and squashes down the thought.

“ _ ‘Who would you ask?’ _ ” Carolina echoes. “Wash, there are several thousand people in this city.”

“You know what I mean.” Wash sighs before adding, “I’m not exactly a catch.” 

He tries to tack on a laugh and feign a smile but doesn’t quite make it.

Carolina shrugs. “I know someone who’d disagree.”

“Hm,” Wash grunts. Then his brain catches up to his ears. He can almost hear the figurative record scratch. “Wait, what?”

He doesn’t know what his face is doing but it has Carolina biting back a smile. 

“I know a guy,” she says simply.

“Okay,” Wash says, playing along. “What guy?”

“That would be telling.”

“And that would be the point of this conversation.”

“Listen,” Carolina says, facing him head-on. “I happen to know for a fact that a certain someone is into you. Really into you. But it was told to me in confidence. I can’t just tell you his name.”

“Then why the hell are you telling me at all?” Wash crosses his arms.

“I could set up a date for you.”

“A date,” Wash says humorlessly. “No, no. A  _ blind  _ date.”

“I suppose you could call it that.”

“This isn’t a… It’s a  _ formal military ball,” _ Wash says. “Not exactly a first date event.”

“At least if it goes poorly,” Carolina offers, “there’s plenty of alcohol.”

“Har har.” 

Wash stuffs his hands in his pockets and glares at the floor.

Carolina ducks her head, trying to meet his eye. “But I’m serious. I’ll set up the whole thing. You’ll just have to show up. Easy.”

_ Easy for you to say. _ He uses his foot to nudge a punching bag back into the pile. 

Wash isn’t the type of person who gets to spend time on silly things like blind dates or pining after a certain teal teammate. He’s got a team - and an entire army - to keep alive.

But deep down, in a place long forgotten, there’s a whisper.

_ ‘I know for a fact that a certain someone is into you. Really into you.’ _

_ Someone is into me. Likes me. _

_ Me. _

It’s there. And that counts for something. Even if it is drowned out in the end.

Wash shakes his head. “Thanks, but no thanks. Really. I’m just…way too busy to right now…to think about stuff like that. Sorry.”

Carolina nods, though Wash knows she can smell his bullshit from a mile away.

“Don’t apologize. That’s fine. Just… let me know if you change your mind, okay?”

_ Unlikely, _ Wash grumps, but he nods all the same.

 

Later, after Wash has left to teach yet another class, Carolina sits on a bench in the vacant training room.

Epsilon fizzes into existence beside her.

“So,” he says, “not to promote the illusion I give even half a shit about this plan of yours, but… you ask him?”

“He said no.”

“That’s not a huge surprise, C. He’s always been...”

Epsilon trails off. Carolina feels the familiar hum at the back of her skull as the AI becomes absorbed in memories. After a moment, Epsilon catches himself. 

“I mean,” Epsilon says, far too quickly and casually. “He’s always been weird.”

“Well,” Carolina says, taking a swing of water from her canteen. “It’s just too bad.

“I think he and Tucker would be good for each other.”

* * *

Wash isn’t lying when he says he’s busy. He is, overwhelmingly so. 

But, most of that is by design.

He trains squad after squad of cadets daily. And that’s on top of training with the Reds and Blues. Plus, there are strategy meetings with Kimball, and plans for clearing out the last few space pirate strongholds now that Locus and Felix are gone.

And when all that is over, Wash searches out other chores to keep him busy. He helps Donut track inventory in the armory. He lends a hand to Sarge, welding together the Red Leader’s newest robotic creation. He joins Caboose on whatever nonsensical adventure the man’s planned around the base for the day. Things such as tossing tennis balls for Freckles to ‘fetch’ (shoot out of the sky. They’re getting low on tennis balls). He’ll take any and all distractions if it keeps him from thinking about the looming void that is the future. 

The truth is, war is the only place Wash has ever found a home in. And now that the one on Chorus is fading, he’s left free floating.

Civilian life is a far-off fantasy that belongs to other people. Better people. And Wash is a soldier who has known nothing but conflict for the last decade of his life. When he thinks about himself - a patchwork of trauma and paranoia - in an ordinary world, the pieces won’t fit. 

The only semblance of direction he’s got is the Reds and Blues, and it’s been like that since they pulled him from the snow on Sidewinder. He’ll follow them into hell and has done so in the past.

But Wash isn’t entirely sure he’s equipped to follow them into peace times.


	2. Chapter Two

Dinner is its usual chaotic affair. In a corner of the mess hall, the Reds and Blues squish together at a group of tables where space is so tight that an elbow to the face is less of a threat and more of a common occurrence.

Above the din of silverware scraping metal trays, Caboose chatters away to Donut about his plan to get Freckles a leash. The pink soldier claps his hands giddily, offering to bedazzle it. A bored Grif flicks peas at an irate, red-faced Simmons. Wash, meanwhile, tries his hardest to concentrate on a pile of paperwork spread out in front of him.

A half-eaten sandwich bounces across the documents, leaving a trail of mustard in its wake.

Wash looks up to find Simmons about to hurl the other half at Grif.

“If you two start a food fight,” Wash warns, nudging the sandwich off his papers with a pen, “I’ll have you running laps around the entirety of Armonia.”

Grif nabs the rogue sandwich and stuffs it in his mouth. It’s hard to tell what he says next with his mouth full but it sounds suspiciously like ‘You’re not my real dad.’

Simmons hunches his shoulders, grumbling at his plate. “He started it.”

Wash grits his teeth. He grabs a napkin and rubs at the yellow stained papers to no avail. “I don’t  _ care  _ who started it. It just needs to stop.”

Caboose peeks around Grif. 

“Wash, Wash,” he calls. “Where is Tucker?”

Wash looks across the table at the empty seat he’s spread his papers over to claim. Saving a spot for Tucker is a habit Wash’s gotten into since the armies joined together. That’s  _ all  _ it is.

“His squad’s training ended twenty minutes ago,” Wash says, glancing up at the mess hall clock. “He’s probably just running late.”

“Oh, good,” Caboose says. “I wanted to ask him...”

Caboose and Tucker have been most of his direction lately. Tucker most of all. But Wash doesn’t want to think about that right now because thinking about Tucker will make Wash think about yesterday - when they were taking a water break after sparring. Tucker was beaming as he talked about his latest message from Junior, and Wash found himself smiling too. And for a moment, he thought about asking Tucker to go to the ball with him. 

Thankfully, before he’d had time to open his mouth, the reality hit him with the force of a speeding warthog causing him to mumble excuses and sprint away.

The fact is, Tucker is his best friend. The journey to reach this point hasn’t been easy for either of them, involving a lot of yelling and a lot of mistrust on both sides. But these days, Wash can say with one hundred percent certainty that he trusts Tucker with his life. And from the way they fight together in battle, the Freelancer knows Tucker feels the same. 

Even off the battlefield, that trust remains. Tucker comes to him with his problems and Wash - well, he’s trying. It doesn’t take quite as much nagging to get him to talk as it used to. 

Wash tries not to dwell on that trust too much because it elicits this fuzzy, featherweight feeling in his chest he doesn’t know what to do with. But still, it's nice. 

Wash could ruin it all with a few simple words.

“...And that is why it is  _ not my fault _ all the toilet paper is gone,” Caboose finishes.

Wash blinks. Caboose is looking at him like he’s expecting an answer.

“Ah…” Wash mentally scrambles for words. “That’s… that sounds… good.”

Caboose beams. “I knew you’d say yes!”

“And you give us shit for throwing food,” Grif mutters.

“The odds of us dying,” Simmons says to Wash, “within the next forty-eight hours just tripled. Thanks.”

Oh, god. What did he agree to?  _ Did I hear the word ‘gasoline’ somewhere in there? _

His only hope is that Tucker shows up soon so Caboose will explain the whole thing again. That’s the  _ only  _ reason Wash keeps glancing at the door, waiting for a hint of telltale teal.

* * *

Tucker drops his head against the mirror with a dull clunk.

“Oh, fucking fuck me,” he groans.

He’s hunched over a sink in the deserted locker room. There’s no sound save the occasional drip from the taps and shower heads, and the echo of his own angry cursing.

Tucker told himself letting his squad go thirty minutes early would give him plenty of time to prepare. Yet he’s been here for an hour. Dinner’s long since started and he’s still hiding in the bathroom like a  _ wuss. _

Tucker blows out a breath, shaking his arms out in front of the mirror. 

“Okay, okay. Start over,” he breathes, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You can do this. It’s not even a big deal.”

Tucker collects himself, looks square in the mirror, and begins.

“Wash…” he starts.

He frowns and tries again, experimenting with a range of hand motions. “Wash.  _ Wash. _ Washington -  _ oh god, _ no. Don’t make it weird. Just Wash. Wash...” 

Tucker clears his throat and straightens. “Are you going to the ball… dance? Cool, I am too. Maybe we should… Both. Go.  _ I mean, _ since we’re both going maybe we should go at the same time. Cause its...easier - holy shit, this isn’t a  _ fucking carpool.  _ Uh - Maybe we should go together. No, no. We  _ should  _ go together…because… Fuck.”

Tucker stares down the drain, half wishing he could disappear down the dark hole. 

He  _ cannot  _ fuck this up. 

Wash isn’t only Tucker’s friend (and crush). He’s also his teammate, mentor, and roommate. If Tucker makes things weird between them, there’s no way to ignore it. They can’t just stop talking…can they? Tucker hopes not. Wash is one of the few things that’s made these long months on Chorus bearable. He’s always there to offer quiet encouragement after a rough training session. Or to sit and listen to Tucker vent about the bullshit that is the war on Chorus. 

Wash is always there. That’s kind of his thing.

The teal soldier bangs his head against the mirror a few more times for good measure.

_ Dammit. _ Why did he leave this until two days before the dance? If he doesn’t do this soon he’ll panic and it’ll never happen and he’ll be kicking himself for the rest of his dumb life.

Tucker glares at his reflection. 

“You know what?”

He throws up his arms. “Good- _ fucking _ -enough. Get out there and ask that fuck-face to the dance. It’s fine. It’ll be  _ fine.” _

Winging it’s always worked for Tucker in the past. Hell, he’s been winging it for the last decade of his life.

Compared to fighting in two fake wars and giving birth to an alien savior, how hard could this be?

* * *

Dinner’s over by the time Tucker comes skidding into the mess hall. The shutters to the kitchen are closed tight and the only thing left of the food is the faint scent lingering in the air. 

Tucker scowls. There goes his plan to grab coffee for Wash. But that’s fine. He’s winging it, remember? Taking the hits as they come. Rolling with the punches.

Most of the tables are empty. But he spots Caboose and the Reds getting up from a table in the corner and - yep, there’s Wash. The Freelancer’s hunched over some papers, oblivious to the ruckus going on around him as everyone clears their trays. Soon it’s just Wash at the table.  _ Perfect. _

_ Okay, okay. Be cool,  _ Tucker coaches himself as he approaches. This is a totally natural, normal conversation.

“HI WASH,” Tucker shouts at the back of the man’s head.

Wash is tense and jumpy on a good day. But today must not be going great because the man nearly hits the ceiling, sending papers flying.

“Christ, Tucker!” Wash whips around in his chair, glaring. “What the  _ hell?” _

“Uh, oh, sorry!” Tucker stutters, stooping to grab Wash’s scattered paperwork from the floor. “I-I thought you heard me come over.”

_ No. no, no, no.  _ He’s doing this all wrong. Cool, regular Tucker would be turning this into a joke.  _ Fix it. _

“Because,” Tucker mentally flails, “you’re like so… ninja...like.”

_ Smooth, dipshit. _

Wash eyes him as Tucker hands over the papers.

“Are you sure,” Wash says, “it’s not because you’ve been standing too close to live grenade practice again?”

“Yes!” Tucker agrees enthusiastically, sliding into the seat across from the man. “It’s definitely that. You got me.”

Wash gives a small huff of laughter. “You’re going to blow out your eardrums. Here-”

The Freelancer reaches under the table and, to Tucker’s surprise, pulls out a full tray of food. He must have been balancing it on his lap this whole time - the contents are a bit sloshed from when Tucker startled him. 

Wash slides it over to Tucker. “I figured you’d be hungry. It’s kind of cold now. Sorry.”

Tucker blinks. “You saved me dinner?” A sudden warm for Wash rises in Tucker’s chest, making it momentarily hard to breathe. The teal soldier manages to get out a laugh. 

“Holy shit, thanks, dude! Don’t apologize.” He’s digging in as he speaks. “You’re literally the best.”

Wash ducks his head. “You’re welcome,” he mumbles.

_ Oh, shit. _ Did he already make Wash uncomfortable? But, Tucker’s had to have said shit like that to him before, right? Regardless, Tucker’s gotta reel it in. 

Tucker spends several long moments shoveling peas into his mouth, giving himself time to think. He needs to focus on what he came here for. But how to bring it up naturally? If Tucker brings it up on his own it’ll look desperate. And he’s got a reputation to uphold.

“Tucker?”

The teal soldier starts. “What?” He says, drooling peas out of his mouth.

Wash raises an eyebrow as he rests his chin on a fist. His other hand taps the pen against the table. 

“I said, did the cadets give you any trouble? You’re pretty late.” The Freelancer squints. “Maybe you  _ should  _ have Grey check your hearing.”

“What?” Tucker repeats intelligently, swallowing his food. “No, no. I’m fine. It’s just…”

_ Come on, come on. Think. _

“The kids seemed pretty distracted today,” Tucker says, cool as fucking Sidewinder. “Wonder why?”

The bait is set. All Wash has to do is suggest  _ ‘it’s because of the dance this weekend’. _ And then Tucker says  _ ‘oh speaking of the dance’ _ and boom. Got ‘im.

Wash surveys the scattered groups of soldiers still loitering around the mess hall. 

“It’s probably this nice weather,” he says, eyes going back to his papers. “And the end of Felix and Locus has helped raise everyone’s morale.”

_ Damn. _ Went right over his head. And is it Tucker’s imagination or is Wash having trouble making eye contact with him?

“Well,” Tucker says, plowing ahead, “you can’t really blame them. I’m first in line to  _ DANCE  _ on Felix’s grave when we find it.”

Word association.  _ Nice. _

Wash sits up, face lined with worry. “Recent scouting missions haven’t had any luck?”

_ Fucking hell, Washington.  _ Before Tucker can answer, the Freelancer’s already entered paranoid asshole mode.

“I’ve been trying to tell Kimball,” Wash says, jaw tense. “With the space pirates leaderless and on the move, we should start strategic sweeps of the local abandoned towns and cities. Soon too. Before they disappear into the uninhabited sections of jungle. The more we flush out now, the faster redevelopment can start for civilians in the area…”

_ No. Fuck. Shit. _ Tucker needs to backtrack while he’s still got the chance.

“That can wait one weekend though, right?” Tucker hints. “Until we’re done  _ celebrating.” _

“Hmm.” Wash averts his gaze.

Tucker tacks on, “The kids need a break. We ALL need a break.”

‘Especially you,’ Tucker doesn’t add, though it’s true. They’re roommates. He knows how much sleep Wash gets on average, which is none.

The Freelancer hums again and rubs his temples. “I know… I just - can’t stop thinking about the possibility of an attack. The pirates might be disorganized now but all it takes is one charismatic soldier like Felix stepping up - and we’re back to where we started. And the ball this weekend would be the perfect time for a surprise attack.”

_ There it is.  _ But Tucker can hardly change the subject now - not while Wash is sending himself to an early grave overthinking all this. The teal soldier holds back a sigh - he doesn’t want to seem dismissive of Wash’s concerns.

“We haven’t seen a unified force in months,” Tucker coaxes.  _ “And  _ we’ve cut their supply lines so they’re not going to have, like, any ammo now. How likely is an attack, _ really?” _

Wash frowns, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just being...careful,” he says slowly, “but Kimball’s agreed to put extra guards on the walls. Just in case.”

Tucker gapes. “You’re going to drag some of these  _ poor kids _ away from the  _ first bit of fun _ they’ve had in  _ literal years _ to stand around an  _ empty wall?” _ He levels his spoon at the Freelancer. “That’s cruel and unusual, Wash. Even for you.”

“Well, not everyone’s planning on going,” Wash protests weakly. “We’ve already had several volunteers.”

_ This is it. _

“And what about you?” Tucker asks.

Wash looks baffled. “Me?”

“Yeah, you genius. Are you going to the dance?” 

Wait, shit, that sounded too invested.  _ Backtrack. _

“Or…uh,” Tucker drags out. “Are you planning on hiding out somewhere ‘til the fun levels decrease?”

Wash snorts. “I’m not  _ opposed  _ to fun. Caboose thinks I’m fun.”

“Caboose thinks watching the sink drain is fun.”

The Freelancer ignores that. “I’m going to be there,” Wash says coolly. But he’s got a white-knuckled death grip on the pen.

Fuck, Tucker’s totally weirding Wash out. This was such a bad idea. Wash probably doesn’t even want to go to the dance at all. It’s more likely Kimball’s just making him go for morale or whatever. It’s a crowded gathering in an open room where he can’t keep track of the exits and won’t be wearing armor. Why did Tucker ever think Wash would want to go to the dance? 

Let alone go to the dance with  _ him? _

Tucker realizes he’s been staring creepily at Wash in silence for several seconds instead of answering.

“Oh,” Tucker says, though it comes out high pitched and mangled. “Good.”

Wait, no, no, no. Pull it back into jokes-among-friends-territory.

Tucker finds himself blurting out, “In that case, I can’t wait to see you dance with that stick up your ass.”

_ Holy shit, stop, you’re ruining this. _

Wash scowls at the table. “No one said I’d be dancing,” he seethes. The Freelancer looks around before leaning in close and adding in a screeching hiss, “And-and I don’t have a  _ stick  _ up my  _ ass!” _

The teal soldier’s heart is in his throat. It pushes out his next words in a breathless rush. 

“Soyougoinganyone?” He coughs. “I mean, are you going with anyone?”

Wash eyes Tucker warily.

“Why do you care?” He answers, voice guarded as he fidgets in his seat.

_ Because I want you to go with me,  _ Tucker’s brain supplies.  _ Because I’ve been wanting to ask you out on a normal date since forever but we’re in the middle of a goddamn war so it’s literally been impossible. Because this is the first chance I’ve had to ask you out and I’m scared there won’t be another. _

“Because,” Tucker says instead, “I don’t think a side arm counts as a plus one, dude.”

Wash pulls back as if Tucker physically attacked him. The Freelancer’s face does something complicated but it quickly settles on anger.

“As a matter of fact,” Wash snaps, “I  _ have  _ a date.”

Just like that, both men freeze. Tucker’s thoughts screech to a halt. Even Wash looks appalled by his own outburst.

“Really?” Tucker’s mouth says without permission from his brain.

Wash’s face drops. For a second, something flashes behind the man’s eyes that Tucker doesn’t recognize. 

Wash looks…  _ hurt. _

“I mean, oh,” Tucker amends, heart in the pit of his stomach. “You do.” 

The teal soldier clears his throat. “Cool. So do I.”

The Freelancer stands so fast he nearly knocks over his chair. 

“Well,” Wash says, voice clipped. He grabs up his papers, never once looking at Tucker, “I suppose I’ll see you there.” 

“Yeah,” Tucker repeats dumbly, “see you there.”

With that, Wash stalks off. Tucker’s left sitting and staring at a tray of cold food, trying to remember the feeling of warmth it had brought him only minutes ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you really think it was going to be that easy? ;) I warned there would be angst


	3. Chapter Three

The irony of the whole thing is, Wash _wants_ to go to the ball.

It isn’t his scene, to be sure, but that makes it all the more important. It is an island of normalcy in the ocean of war. Moments like it - when one can forget about staying alive and focus on living - are few and far between.

Like playing Scrabble with Sarge in a far corner of the workshop and debating whether or not ‘tankified’ is a word. Or helping Caboose feed stray animals under the shadow of burnt out apartment complexes. Or getting buzzed drinking shitty moonshine with Carolina at four am, smothering their laughter so the neighbors in the barracks don’t hear.

These things are small, both in time and in substance. But the ball represents a whole night where war doesn’t exist, and the only concern is that nobody spiked the punch or requests the same annoying pop song six times in a row.

After being a soldier for so long, the thought of laying down arms and pretending there aren’t a million ways everyone he knows could die in the blink of an eye makes Wash’s stomach tie itself in knots.

But if he can survive one night as a civilian, maybe - just maybe -  he has a chance of something normal after the war.

So Wash, in his own way, is looking forward to the ball.

Maybe that’s why he’s so angry. Because it’s the day before the ball and he’s already managed to ruin it for himself.

 _How can a person be so singularly_ stupid?

Wash punctuates the thought with another blow to the punching bag. It’s powerful enough to rattle the chains and a few soldiers lifting weights across the room look up at the noise. Wash barely registers the stares.

How could he let Tucker rile him up like that? The jabs weren’t anything the Freelancer hadn’t heard before.

_‘Uh-oh, here comes the fun police.’_

_‘Do I need to leave you and that sniper rifle alone?’_

_‘You can take the crazy super soldier out of the war, but you can’t take the war out of the crazy super soldier.’_

This must be what people mean by ‘between a rock and a hard place.’ Either Wash goes to the dance alone and Tucker realizes he lied, or he takes guard duty on the wall and Tucker realizes he lied. Either way, he’s fucked and tomorrow Wash is going to prove to be the loser Tucker always knew he was.

Wash’s fists connect with the bag again. The crack of the contact echoes through the room. Tiny sparks of pain shoot up his arm but Wash just grits his teeth and keeps on pummeling the bag.

At least he knows how the teal soldier sees him now: The paranoid stick in the mud with no prospects. The man so wrapped up in war he’ll never find his way out. Maybe it’s all true. But it still hurts.

Tucker showed up at dinner acting cagey and for a moment Wash _idiotically_ let himself believe Tucker might be about to ask him to the ball. Turns out the man just came to gloat about having a date. Wash tells himself that’s not surprising. He shouldn’t have expected anything different.

But Wash can’t forget the shock on Tucker’s face the moment Wash said he had a date. The disbelief, the ‘really?’ was the final twist of the knife through his heart.

A particularly wild punch sends the punching bag swinging. Panting, Wash stops to steady it. Blood hammers in his ears, the Freelancer drops his head against the bag and drags in a few deep breaths through gritted teeth.

_Cool it. You’re getting worked up over nothing. It’s nothing._

Wash closes his eyes, frowning. So, Tucker never expected him to have a date. Maybe he thought Wash wouldn’t ask anyone. Or worse, he thought no one would bother asking Wash.

Who would want to go to the ball with an unstable mess of anger issues like him?

_‘I know for a fact that a certain someone is into you. Really into you.’_

Of their own accord, Wash’s eyes wander to his datapad sticking out of his bag on a nearby bench.

 _No. Nope. No way._ Wash shakes his head and spins to kick the punching bag. He’ll take guard duty and hide up on the wall for the night. Or maybe for the rest of his life.

Wash aims a punch but falters halfway through. _Shit._ Whether he goes to the dance or not, Tucker will know Wash lied about having a date in the first place. But what will he think if Wash doesn’t show at all?

 _SHIT._ Growling, Wash scrubs a hand over his face. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, he launches a roundhouse kick that causes the bag’s chains to whine in protest.

The ball is already a looming threat for his obsessive need to be in control of situations. A blind date is a wild card he’s not sure he’s ready for on multiple levels.

Wash blasts off another kick, then another. And another. Each marked by the sharp snap of contact with the bag.

But say he shows up at the ball alone. Tucker’s going to bring it up. What’s Wash supposed to do then?

What if he figures out Wash is a pining fool?

Maybe it’s his racing thoughts or the fact he’s going on twenty hours without sleep. Either way, Wash doesn’t land the spin of the last kick quite right. The Freelancer’s feet tangle up underneath him and he crashes to the mat, legs flying.

Wash blinks up at the ceiling, sucking back in the air punched out of him by the fall. The punching bag sways back and forth as, in the sudden silence, Wash recognizes the sound of his heart pounding to the cadence of a rapid-fire machine gun. He sits up slowly, feeling the throb of his knuckles and bare feet adrenaline must have been hiding until now.

_Fucking Christ. Look at the mess you’ve made._

Across the room, he catches a couple of soldiers staring, but they suddenly become absorbed in their own tasks.  The rest either missed his fall entirely or are pointedly pretending not to notice.

Wash’s face is warm and he’s not sure he can blame it on the exercise. Ducking his head, he hauls himself to his feet, then over to the bench. He flops down, pulling a water bottle from his bag, and quickly drains it. All the while, his gaze flickers back to the datapad sitting beside him.

Wash heaves a sigh and runs a hand through his sweat soaked hair.

This is ridiculous. He knows for a fact now Tucker doesn’t have any interest in him. And he can’t wallow in an unrequited crush on his best friend forever. That’s just not healthy - not that Wash is a shining example of emotional health, but that’s beside the point.

Maybe he’s got to suck it up and jump off the deep end. What better way to do that than on a blind date with someone he’s got on pretty good authority actually likes him.

 _Likes_ me. The thought still carries a warmth to it. Maybe this will be good for him. Maybe he’ll have fun. And if Wash shows Tucker that he’s not the hopeless killjoy the teal soldier thinks he is, well,

That’s just an added bonus.

* * *

 

 **Washington:** hey

 **Washington:** is that offer from earlier still open?

 **Washington:** just curious. no big deal either way

 **Carolina:** it is

 **Washington:** alright. good to know

 **Carolina:** are you okay?

 **Carolina:** wash

 **Washington:** i may or may not have implied to someone that i have a date for the ball

 **Carolina:** alright

 **Washington:** what do you mean alright

 **Carolina:** just alright. is there something you want to ask?

 **Washington:** i hate you

 **Washington:** fine. could you possibly set up that thing we talked about earlier?

 **Washington:** please

 **Carolina:** this isn’t a drug deal. you can call it a date

 **Carolina:** you still there?

 **Washington:** can you please set up the blind date for me

 **Carolina:** of course

 **Washington:** thank you

 **Carolina:** i can hear you overthinking this all the way across base

 **Washington:** i am not

 **Carolina:** don’t stress about it. just relax. i’ll handle everything


	4. Chapter Four

Tucker can’t believe he missed it.

He spends more time with Wash than literally anyone else on base. They train together, they eat together, they relax together. They even room together for Christ sake. Tucker should have been first to know if the Freelancer was eyeing someone. 

Has Tucker been too caught up in his own crush to notice?  _ Way to be an oblivious, self-centered asshole. _

Wash is mysteriously absent from their room that night. Tucker tells himself it’s because the Freelancer has paperwork to do or is camped out in the training room. But the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach makes him wonder if Wash is avoiding him.

At breakfast, it’s just Tucker and Caboose. Supposedly, Wash is off making sure the cadets don’t slack off on their morning laps. Caboose chatters away about what Freckles wants for his birthday, but Tucker tunes him out, instead hunkering down behind his stack of pancakes and eyeing everyone who walks past.

Maybe Wash’s date is the hot pilot with the beefy arms who flew them on their last two missions? But, no, he’s married to one of the engineers. What about that cute sniper sitting in the corner? No, that’s definitely a girlfriend sitting across the table. Fuck.

Eventually, enough people catch Tucker’s creepy staring he has to abandon his breakfast and slink out of the mess hall. The rest of the day is even less productive if that’s possible. Tucker avoids the training room like Grif to the idea of a balanced diet. (But  _ NOT _ because Tucker’s avoiding Wash. He just… doesn’t feel like straining himself today, okay?) 

Instead, the teal soldier floats around the base: Loitering outside the firing range with some of his squad between drills. Sitting on crates in the hanger with the pilots on their lunch break. Even hanging out in Sarge’s workshop with a couple of welding students until the Red leader throws him out for being a distraction. Everywhere he goes, though, Tucker’s got an ear out for gossip.

Maybe Wash is going with the giggly, baby-faced nurse who Grey always has check the Freelancer for concussions. Nope, Tucker’s told. Taken.

What about that one tall, dark, and handsome explosives expert? No, he’s volunteered for guard duty the night of the dance.

All the detective work makes one thing clear: Just about everyone’s spoken for. But that’s to be expected considering it’s the day before the dance. Grif and Simmons are going together, big surprise. Carolina and Kimball have been sneaking around for weeks though Tucker knows for a fact they’re a thing. Sarge has a date with Grey. Even Caboose seems to have plans, though Tucker’s pretty sure they don’t involve a date considering the teal soldier saw him walking through the mess hall at lunch with a box of empty mortar shells and jars of glitter.  

Those without dates are either not going or… Well, they’re not quite the right person.

“You’re not an easy person to find.”

Tucker startles out of his reverie. 

He’s sprawled on a sofa in the cadets’ common room, having spent the last two hours watching the kids huddle around the TV for a Super Smash Bros championship. He’s never been in here before and he’s pretty sure the other Reds and Blues haven’t either since it looks and smells like a college dorm room - complete a mountainous, overflowing trash bin and questionable stains on nearly every surface. So, when he looks up, he’s surprised to find Carolina standing over him.

“We need to talk,” she says, face unreadable and arms folded across her chest.

Tucker’s mind races, pulling up everything he’s ever done to wrong the woman in the slightest. Did he fuck up orders on the last mission? Did he leave the toilet seat up? 

The corner of Carolina’s mouth ticks up in a ghost of a smirk. 

“Not like that,” she says because apparently, she’s a fucking mind reader now. “I’ve got something to ask you is all.”

“Whew, okay,” Tucker breathes, sitting up and stretching. “Ask away.”

Carolina eyes the room swarming with cadets. The cacophony of cheers and trash talking is growing louder by the minute as the Smash battle goes into a sudden death round. “Let’s go somewhere more private,” she calls over the  _ whap _ of virtual flying fists.

“Bow chic-”

She leans in close, suddenly standing more over him than in front of him. “I will kick your ass in front of all of these kids,” she says, voice low.

Tucker huffs. “Ugh, fine.”

Hopping the back of the couch, he heads to the kitchenette nestled in the corner of the room. Carolina follows close behind, picking her way expertly over a pile of pizza boxes. Tucker stops in front of the crusty coffee pot and grabs two cracked mugs off the drying rack. He waves one toward Carolina. She makes a face and shakes her head.

Tucker shrugs. “More for me,” he says, filling his cup. 

Meanwhile, Carolina leans against the wall and surveys the room.

“Ready for the ball tomorrow?” She asks.

Tucker stops with the steaming mug halfway to his lips. He raises an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah, I guess.”  _ The fuck? _

She nods. “Are you going with anyone?” There’s no beating around the bush with Carolina.

_ Isn’t that the million dollar question.  _ Tucker snorts and studies the gritty sludge masquerading as coffee in his cup. 

“If anyone besides Wash asks, no.” Tucker’s brain catches up with his mouth. “Wait, I mean…”

She cocks her head. “Why not Wash?”

Tucker drops his head back against the kitchen cabinet with a  _ thunk. _ “It’s a long story,” he sighs and downs his coffee. Then, wiping his mouth on his wrist, he adds, “A long story that ends in  _ I fucked up real bad.” _

Carolina nods almost imperceptibly. “Well,” she says. “I’ve got time if you do. Drinks at the usual place?”

“God, yes, I thought you’d never ask.”

* * *

Wash has never actually seen Donut’s yoga class in action. He’s heard about it plenty though, from his own squad and the pink soldier himself. Donut keeps inviting him to join, offering to lend him a mat and everything, and it’s getting harder to say no to the man.

And, since Wash makes a point of avoiding the training room during class, he never realized how well attended it is. Each of Donut’s thirty plus students gets a personal chat and goodbye from the man as class wraps up. As everyone disperses, Donut saunters over to where Wash is standing against the wall.

“Oh, heeey, Wash,” the man drawls, dabbing his face with the towel hanging from his neck. “I didn’t see you there.”

Wash highly doubts Donut missed him hiding behind the lockers and watching the class like a creep for the last twenty minutes. The pink soldier even ended class early and told everyone to take a walk to ‘recharge their auras’ or something. 

Wash’s never understood how Donut can be so nice to him.

“Hi, Donut,” Wash says, smiling weakly. “Listen, could I talk to you for a minute?”

Donut’s smile could blind a man. “Oh, you should know I can last much longer than that,” he chirps. “What can I do for you?”

_ Never say that again for starters.  _ Wash yanks his mind out of the gutter and back to the task he’s been psyching himself up to for the last eight hours. “Are you, er, busy tomorrow?”

“Wash, I already have a date for the ball.”

Wash just about swallows his own tongue. “What?” He croaks. “No, no, I wasn’t asking - I wouldn’t - I mean, not that you’re not - I just-” His cheeks burn.

Donut throws back his head and laughs. “I’m kidding,” he assures, patting Wash on the arm. “Goodness, you’re tense. You really should try coming to class one of these days.”

“Um, yeah. Maybe.” Wash says, knowing full well he won’t.

Donut snags a water bottle off the bench and takes a long drag. “So,” he says, finally coming up for air.  “What can I do for you?”

Wash looks at his shoes and scratches the back of his head. “I was… just wondering - you don’t have to.” He takes a deep breath to quell the nervous fidgeting. Then his words spill out in a rush, “CanyouhelpmefigureoutwhattowearfortheballthatisifyourenotbusyitscoolifyouarejustthoughtIdask-”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Donut chuckles, waving his hands. “Slow down a sec! And try breathing once in a while next time.”

Wash swallows hard. “I…don’t know what to wear for the ball… I don’t have a Chorus military uniform. Or an official rank for that matter.”

“Well, you won’t have to worry about the uniform,” Donut says. “Most of the soldiers don’t have one. I imagine the budget’s been tight the last few years what with the alien temples blasting supply ships from the sky. But to answer your question, the dress code is formal but not, say, black tie. So you can leave the good ol’ tux at home!”

_ A tux and a suit aren’t the same thing? _   “Oh. Good to know.”

Donut catches his wide-eyed, deer caught in headlights look. “Oh, but you want a bit more direction than that. Well, let’s see...” The pink soldier claps his hands, grinning. “First things first! Are you thinking tie or bowtie?”

“Ahh,” Wash blanches. “I don’t have one.”

“Which one?”

“...Both of them?”

“Well, that’s fine,” Donut soothes. “I’ve got plenty of spares. But what color suit jacket are you going to be wearing? Classic black? Or maybe navy? Charcoal? Will the pants been the same?”

Wash doesn’t know what his face is doing but Donut figures it out pretty quick.

The man’s characteristic enthusiasm drains a bit. “You don’t have a suit jacket either,” Donut supplies.

“Um… no.”

“Some nice pants then?” Donut asks, hopeful.

Wash shakes his head. In his opinion, the nicest pair of pants he owns is a pair of faded jeans with only two small holes in them.

Donut wilts. “You don’t have anything, do you?”

“I had a pair of dress socks,” Wash offers weakly, eyes on his shoes. “But I think Grif took them.”

“Oh, Wash,” Donut sighs. 

Wash mentally prepares himself for the legendary ‘disappointed Donut’ face he’s been warned about by Red Team. But when he looks up, that’s not what he finds. The man is sad, yes. But more… sympathetic. 

It hits the Freelancer that Donut doesn’t look sad  _ because of _   Wash. He looks sad  _ for _   Wash.  And Wash really doesn’t know what to do with that.

“I, um, was hoping you knew someone with an extra jacket or something,” Wash mumbles. “I can figure it out from there.”

That’s an utter lie. Ninety percent of his wardrobe is made up of donated items from the Reds and Blues - a miss match of colors and sizes he’s been accumulating since Sidewinder. He knows he’s got more options these days in Armonia, but he isn’t quite ready to part with any of it just yet.

Donut gives him a dubious look. “Wash, I cannot in  _ good conscious _ let one of  _ my friends _ wear an ill-fitting, off the rack suit.”

Wash blows out a breath. “I don’t exactly have a lot of options here, Donut.”

A sudden glint lights up the man’s eyes. A smile blooms on his face as he clasps his hands together under his chin. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Donut purrs as he slides up to Wash. “In fact...” he says, looping an arm through the Freelancer’s.  

“It sounds like we’re going  _ shopping!”   _ The pink soldier sings, and half the training room looks up.

As Donut tugs him out the door, Wash tells himself he won’t regret this. Not for long at least.

Hopefully.

If he's very lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get in losers, we're going shopping.


	5. Chapter Five

Something Tucker’s come to appreciate about Carolina while on Chorus is this: she’s a great listener. 

In the past when she had her helmet on and was silent for too long Tucker got the impression she was quietly judging him. Or possibly plotting how to remove his balls while inflicting maximum pain. But more time spent with her outside of armor since coming to Armonia revealed the truth. She’s attentive, always waiting to interject until you’re through. She’s been Tucker’s go to confident for spilling his guts about his crush on Wash - ever since the time she, Tucker, and Grif got drunk in a storage closet and Tucker let slip he had a thing for the man.

They’re in the same storage closet now, just the two of them and a few cans of lukewarm soda between them.

Tucker lies on his back on the floor, flapping his arms in earnest as he tells his tale. “...And then  _ he  _ said,  _ ‘well, I’ve got a date.’ _ And I panicked because if he finds out I was going to ask him it’s going to make things so fucking weird. And so  _ I _ said,  _ ‘yeah, me too.’ _ ” 

Tucker drops his arms to the concrete. “So that’s how I fucked everything up and we haven’t spoken since. Which isn’t my fault. Except for it kind of is my fault. And I just… ugggghh.” He buries his face in his hands.

Carolina eyes him from her perch atop a box of paper towels. “When did all this happen?”

Tucker shrugs. “Yesterday at dinner.”

For a moment, her brow furrows, the closet’s singular hanging lightbulb casting her face in shadow. It gives her a slightly maniacal look.

“Hm,” is all she says. “Alright, makes sense.”

Tucker doesn’t like that faint smile she hides behind a sip of soda.

“What makes sense?” He demands, sitting up. “This whole thing makes no sense.”

She waves him off. “Nothing. But, you’re still planning on going?”

“I mean, I guess. But everyone I know has a date already. I can’t show up alone when I specifically told Wash I have a date. I’ll look like a total tool when he figures out I lied.”

The trace of a smirk crosses her lips. “I might have a solution for you.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“How would you feel about a blind date?”

* * *

“You still haven’t told me who the lucky date is.”

Donut grins giddily at Wash across the table. They sit in what was once the food court of a local mall. At one time it must have been an impressively modern structure, but Chorus’s civil war was not kind. The pipes and wires of the ceiling are exposed. The marble fountain sits dry and filled with debris. The advertisements plastering the walls are faded to obscurity in the places they haven’t been covered in graffiti. 

Wash studies the table, suddenly absorbed in brushing grime off his sleeve. Every surface is covered in a thick layer of dust. The handful of people loitering about leave trails of footprints that crisscross the floor like tracks in the snow.

“I don’t know,” Wash admits, stirring the ice cream in his bowl. “Carolina set me up. On a blind date.”

Donut claps his hands to his cheeks. 

_ “Awwww!” _ he cooes, then bops Wash on the arm with a fist. “Look at you putting yourself out there!”

“I didn’t have much choice,” Wash murmurs, half hiding behind his dish.

Wash had found their shopping trip to be surprisingly relaxing. But the highlight of the day so far has been finding an open ice cream parlor. Wash is torn between exasperation that someone took the time and effort to maintain a soft serve ice cream machine during a planet-wide civil war, and being eternally grateful. Mere ice is a rare commodity these days, even with the hundreds of supply ships coming and going daily. So, ice cream is the height of luxury as far as Wash is concerned.

After several seconds of silence, Wash looks up to find Donut eyeing him, face unnaturally cheerless. 

“What?” Wash asks, gut-churning with guilt.

“You  _ do _ want to do this, don’t you?” Donut presses. “You didn’t just agree to make Carolina happy, right?”

“No, no.” Wash waves his hands. “It’s not like that - I just… Carolina asked and I said no. But then I told… someone… that I had a date… when I didn’t….”

Donut raises his eyebrows and just waits.

“Tucker,” Wash admits finally. “It was Tucker.”

Donut rests his chin on his fist. “But you two get on so well. Why’d you feel the need to tell him that?”

“...It’s stupid.”

Donut gives a small smile. “I doubt that.”

“But it really is though,” Wash insists. “He kept teasing me about... I don’t know, being single? Or just not having a date, I guess. And I said it to shut him up. Because I was mad. But I didn’t have one. So I went back and told Carolina yes - but not just because of that - I do want to go - I just…” Wash flaps his hands, gaping for a few moments before groaning and dropping his head to the table. “Oh, fuck  _ me.” _

“Goodness,” Donut sniffs, patting Wash’s shoulder, “You  _ are _ dramatic.”

“I am  _ not.” _ Wash huffs but doesn’t move to shake the hand off.

He’s noticed how Donut isn’t hesitant to touch him. It’s small things, like a hand at his back to steer him the right direction or a friendly nudge here and there or even holding his hand. The movements are open and slow, giving Wash plenty of time to pull away. There’s an unspoken rule amongst the rest of the reds and blues to give Wash his personal space, and he does appreciate it. But this is nice too - having someone treat him like a regular person, and not like a monster that might bite.

“But I’ve never seen Tucker’s jabs get to you before,” Donut says. “What made this time so different?”

Wash lifts his head but doesn’t meet the pink soldier’s eye. “I don’t know,” he mumbles. “Maybe because everything he was saying was true.”

Donut leans closer. “What’s true?”

Wash shrugs. “You know. The usual stuff, but also… Basically,  _ I couldn’t find my way out of war if it were a paper bag. I’m going to be super out of place at the ball. Why am I bothering going?” _

For a moment, Wash swears Donut looks angry. But the expression is so quickly schooled Wash is left wondering if he imagined it.

“Is that what Tucker said,” the pink soldier asks, eyebrow raised. “Or what you think?”

“I don’t-” Wash blinks. “What?”

“Did he say you shouldn’t bother going to the ball, or is that what you think? That you shouldn’t go.”

Wash fumbles for his words. “I mean, not in so many words… It wasn’t like...except I just...”

He doesn’t know where to begin, so he takes a deep breath and cuts to the chase, “I don’t know if I can  _ do  _ this. Civilian life, I mean. I don’t know if I’m cut out for it.”

“You’ve been doing fine today,” Donut offers.

Wash pulls a face. “That’s different,” he says. “You’re here.”

“Well,” the pink soldier gives a crooked smile. “Whoever said you had to go it alone?”

Wash doesn’t understand how such a simple idea can hit him like such a punch to the chest.

But the Freelancer shakes his head. “You’ve all got your own lives…” He deflects, shifting in his seat. “It’d be selfish of me to pull you away from your own problems just because I can’t handle walking out of the fucking house without a firearm at-”

“Wash.”

Donut’s face is pulled tight in such an uncharacteristic grimace that the rest of the words die in Wash’s throat. After a moment of silence though, Donut sighs.

“Wash,” he says again, eyes sad. “Have you considered the possibility that people  _ like _ spending time with you?”

Wash has no answer for that. Donut looks off across the food court and continues.

“I know we don’t spend a lot of time together,” he says, voice soft. “And I don’t want to overstep. But sometimes it seems like... you get so caught up in your own head that you decide how others must feel about you. 

“You act like owe us something - the Reds and Blues. I don’t know if it’s because of the Project, or Alpha, or for saving you on Sidewinder, or something else entirely but… you don’t. You don’t owe us anything. You’re a part of the team. Not just a side effect of it. And I’m sorry if we haven’t made that clear.”

Wash swallows, mouth dry. “Donut…”

The man shakes his head. “I think,” he says, “that right now the only person you owe anything is yourself. You deserve to be happy - not just for a single night at the ball, but for the rest of your life. But the ball’s a good place to start.

“Now, come on. We need to get you some shoes. I’m not going to let you ruin this outfit by wearing just any dirty old sneakers. If Cinderella taught me anything, it’s the importance of a nice pair of shoes!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on Blind Date Blind Side: Getting ready for the ball montage featuring introspection and emotional angst


	6. Chapter Six

“Remind me again why you can’t do this in your room? A thing you have.” Grif gripes from where he’s sprawled across his bed in the corner.

Tucker’s in front of the mirror, too busy fighting his tie to look up.

_ “Because,” _ he seethes, fumbling to untie the tangled knot he’s created. “Wash is definitely there right now getting ready - speaking of which.” 

Tucker looks over his shoulder at the Red. “Why aren’t  _ you  _ getting ready? The dance starts in like an hour, dude.”

“Unlike, you I know my date. And they know me.” Grif shrugs. “And anyone who knows me  _ knows  _ to keep their expectations low.”

“You’re not wearing that suit t-shirt, right? Donut just about cried last time you wore it.”

“Nah, I got a suit,” Grif says with a dismissive wave. “I just won’t spend three hours trying on every tie I own.”

“Suck my ass.” 

Tucker gives up on the tie and tosses it on to the growing pile on the floor.

Grif raises an eyebrow. “You planning on picking those up?”

“I’m not going to listen to you, of all people, lecture me about cleaning.” Tucker jerks his head towards the mound of pizza boxes turned bedside table. 

“It’s called having an aesthetic, Tucker. Read a book.”

Tucker holds up a deep green tie Junior got him for father’s day. “How’s this?”

Grif wiggles his hand in ‘so-so’ motion. The tie joins the reject pile.

“Why don’t you just wear teal?” Grif asks. “Like, everybody else is wearing their armor color.  Join the fucking Skittles commercial.”

“I’m  _ aqua, _ ” Tucker huffs. “And that’s too basic. I want something that will pop...a boner.  _ Bow chika bow wow. _ ...wait. What’s Wash wearing? _ Do you know what Wash’s wearing?” _

Tucker hasn’t seen the man in anything but armor and poorly fitting civilian clothes before. The thought of the Freelancer in a suit has Tucker mentally drooling.

“You know,” Grif says, “watching you two dance around each other at the crash site was funny. Then we all got separated and it was sad. And now it’s annoying as hell. Do everyone a favor and go make out in a closet somewhere.”

“It’s not that simple,” Tucker growls, turning back to the mirror and looping another tie around his neck.

Grif snorts. “Uh, yeah it is, dude. You’re both pining assholes. Go be pining assholes together. Preferably somewhere I don’t have to see it.”

Tucker struggles to knot the tie, scowling. “I don’t  _ pine. _ I’m a suave mother f- wait.” 

The teal soldier whips his head around so fast he thinks he hears something crack. “You think Wash is pining for me?”

Grif lets loose a drawn-out groan and rolls over. “Anyone with  _ eyes  _ could tell you that. Probably people without ‘em too.”

“You’re… you’re wrong,” Tucker swallows hard. “Wash just about shit a brick when we talked about the dance.”

“Well, you do have that effect on people.”

“Shove off, man,” Tucker snaps. “There’s no way in hell he’s interested in me. And he’s got a date.”

Tucker watches Grif suppress an eye roll. 

“Maybe he’s got a date,” Grif says slowly, “because you waited until the week of the dance to ask him? Just saying, man.”

“That’s-that’s not,” Tucker stutters. “I just… I still … ugh.” He spins around and throws himself face first onto Simmons’s empty bed in the opposite corner.

“God, you’re dramatic,” Grif says, standing up to come sit down next to Tucker. “Both of you. Probably why you two get on so well.”

“Everything's so fucked up,” Tucker complains, words muffled by the comforter. 

“Yep,” Grif says helpfully, opening a bag of chips he’s pulled from somewhere. 

“And now I’m stuck with a blind date, and I don’t even know if they’re hot or what Wash will think.”

“‘What Wash will think’?” Grif echoes, around a mouthful of chips. “Back up, did you agree to this blind date just to make Wash jealous?”

“Uh…” Tucker rolls his head to face the Red but avoids his eye.

Grif shoots him a dubious look. “Dude, that’s low.”

“I didn’t mean it like that!” Tucker protests, pushing himself up. “I just - okay, maybe I did, but… I know it’s a shitty thing to do to my date.”

“Yeah.” Grif agrees. “It is.”

“So…” Tucker fumbles for words, “...consider this my...uh, first step off the Wash train. Yeah - if he doesn’t like me, then fine. It’s  _ fine. _ I’m fine. More than fine.  _ I’m _ a fine piece of ass. I got other options.”

“If that’s what you want to tell yourself, fine. Now would you pick a tie already?”

Tucker sits up and inspects his shirt. “How about no tie? Just open the collar like this. What do you think?”

“A couple of things,” Grif says and start counting off on his fingers. “First, thanks for wasting my night watching you try on ties only to leave them all on the floor. Second, disco called and they want their popped collar back.”

“Hey!”

“Yeah. It suits you,” he says. “And third, for the sake of your date, cut the asshole routine.”

Tucker scrunches up his face. “Asshole routine?”

“I know it’s asking a lot.”

“No, what’s the asshole routine?”

“It’s that thing you do. You know,” Grif prods. “Where you act all cool-”

“Fuck you, I am cool.”

“-and put on the whole I-don’t-give-a-shit-aloof-player-act. And start chasing tail in a million different directions just to avoid having an actual conversation with the person you’re really hung up on.”

“I don…” Tucker starts to object but the words die on his tongue, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. He looks down at his hands clenching the bedspread.

Grif holds out the chip bag. Tucker shoves a handful in his mouth, glad for the excuse not to talk.

“Just…” Grif sighs, “consider not being a jerkwad to the person who is clearly already into your normal whiny bitch self and not the fast asshole.”

“You… suck at pep talks.”

“Oh, please, this ain’t a pep talk. This is clearly a roast.”

“Whatever,” Tucker says. “But… thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now get the hell out of my room and get to the dance. People expect  _ me _ to be late, but you’ve got a first impression to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on Blind Date Blind Side, Wash gets ready for the ball while also freaking out


	7. Chapter Seven

“Is it too late to steal a pelican and escape?” Wash jokes weakly.

Donut looks up from tying Wash’s tie.

“Oh, there won’t be any need for that! You look gorgeous!”

“Ah, thanks…” Wash mumbles, looking at the ceiling. 

He’s craning his neck at an awkward angle, trying to give Donut room to work on the tie. But that makes it hard to keep an eye on what the pink soldier’s doing. Not that he doesn’t trust, Donut. It’s just the sensation of the fabric cord around Wash’s neck is putting him on edge. It’s taking all his concentration not to fidget. 

Wash can’t help but think how easy it would be for Donut to tighten the tie, constricting the Freelancer’s airway as the soldier swipes his feet out from under him-

“Wash?”

_ “Hm?” _ The noise comes out kind of strangled.

Donut cocks his head. “Do you want to do it?”

Wash feels his cheeks warm. God, why is he so easy to read?

“No, no,” he says, words rushing together. “You’re doing fine - I mean, great. And I haven’t tied a tie since before basic. I-I’d have to look up how and I left my data pad in my room…”

Donut’s been gracious enough to let Wash use his room to get ready for the ball. This is the Freelancer’s first time in the pink soldier’s room, and Wash isn’t sure what he expected but it wasn’t a combination of military cleanliness and homely warmth. The bed’s made to a perfection Sarge would be jealous of. Candles dot every surface and the cement walls are hidden behind tapestries. 

“Do you want to go get it?” Donut offers. “We’ve got time.”

Wash’s gut twists. “Um…”

“What is it?”

Wash shuffles on his feet. “...Tucker’s going to be there. You know. Getting ready for the ball.”

“Ah,” Donut says with a sympathetic smile.

“But it’s fine,” Wash says, shaking his head. “You can do it.” He tacks on. “I trust you.”

Donut positively beams but hides it behind steepled fingers. Of course, this only makes Wash feel even more guilty. He isn’t lying per se, he does trust Donut. It’s just...  _ Jesus Christ, this is too much and the ball hasn’t even started yet. _

“Well,” Donut says, “how about you put your hands like this-”

Donut moves Wash’s scarred hands over his own.

“-that way,” the pink soldier continues, “you know what I’m doing - in case you have to fix it later.”

Wash knows full well Donut’s making excuses for him but finds himself nodding for the man to continue. Okay, Wash has to admit, this is a bit better. Under his palms, he can feel the pull of each muscle as Donut’s fingers work. Wash pretends not to notice the man glance up to check on him every few seconds. 

_ What if he’s thinking I’m going to hurt him? _ The Freelancer’s stomach twists tighter.

“Done,” announces Donut, standing back to inspect his work. “How’s that?”

Donut was the one to pick out the tie at the store. He’d started hopping up and down and clapping when he’d found it, immediately going to grab Wash and drag him over to the display. It’s a deep gray, but woven in are shimmering threads of gold diagonally striping it. Now Wash looks down to find Donut has done some sort of fancy knot and Wash has to admit it looks good.

“It’s amazing, Donut, thank you.”

Donut waves him off. “Don’t mention it. Oh, Wash, you need to see yourself. Your date is a lucky man and he’s gonna know it the second you walk in.”

Wash swallows hard. He’s put a lot of thought into who the mystery date could be. While Wash tries to be friendly with all soldiers on the base, most of his time is spent with the Reds and Blues. Whoever this person is, he must have been crushing on Wash from afar. 

And once he gets one good look at the absolute train wreck that is Agent Washington, he’s going to turn tail and run.

Wash pulls away so fast he almost knocks over Donut.

“Whoa,” says Donut. “What’s-”

“This was a bad idea,” Wash says, pacing up and down the room at a furious rate. “Why did I think that  _ I _ could - something like this. And-and Tucker’s going to be there. And I can’t just avoid him the whole time. And what if Carolina got it wrong and whoever it is doesn’t like - I should have just stayed up on the wall. So stupid-”

Wash turns around to continue pacing and walks smack into Donut. The pink soldier’s grip on Wash’s arms halts his pacing instantly and Wash is too startled to shake him off.

Donut fixes him with a stare. “Have you ever jumped out of a plane?”

Wash blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I said, have you ever jumped out of a plane?”

Of course, Wash has. He must have done it a hundred times during the Project. But his brain isn’t being cooperative right now.

“I, uh, jumped off a skyscraper once.” Wash offers.

Donut lets out a stunned laugh, releasing Wash’s arms. 

“Oh, well, that works too,” Donut chuckles. “And you’re going to have to tell me that story, but another day.”

Donut takes a deep breath. “You know that moment right before you jump? When there isn’t a thing you wouldn’t do to be back on the ground? I think that’s what you’re feeling right now.”

The pink soldier scratches the back of his neck, looking unsure for the first time. “This is a big jump for you - I get that,” Donut says. “And nothing I say will change that. But I can promise you this- the fall’s not as long as it looks. And there’s solid ground waiting for you down there - along with friends.

“Buuut, that being said I won’t push you into doing something you’re uncomfortable with. You know better than anyone if you’re ready for this, and if you’re not, that’s completely fine. I’ll find your date at the dance and tell them you have food poisoning or something - I’ll make it really believable - and I’ll keep an eye on them for the night and make sure they have fun. And if you’re still worried about running into Tucker you can stay in my room for the evening - I’ve got 8 seasons of  _ Say Yes to the Dress _ on DVD-”

“Why are you so nice to me?” Wash blurts out. 

And there it is. The question that’s been eating away at him since the pink soldier arrived on Chorus.

Donut gives a sad smile. “Because you’re always so surprised when people are.”

Wash doesn’t know what to say to that.

“Here,” Donut says, extending a hand. Wash hesitantly takes it and allows Donut to pull him over to the light-studded mirror.

_ “Violà!” _ Donut exclaims with an elegant flip of the wrist. “What do you think?”

It takes Wash a solid fifteen seconds to realize Donut is talking about  _ him _ \- his reflection. And when Wash finally catches sight of it his breath hitches in his throat embarrassingly loud but he doesn’t care because  _ holy shit _ . 

Wash looks… well, he doesn’t know what he looks. The same coiled ball of anxiety and PTSD is staring back at him but something’s changed. Like someone’s sharpened the focus of a picture.

It hits Wash he looks in control. 

He looks less like a sleep deprived mess getting pulled in a thousand different directions by a war he never wanted, and more like a person. A normal person. 

Wash has never been self-conscious about his scars but in the soft light of Donut’s room they don’t stand out as much as he remembers. And thanks to the pink soldier his hair is stylish messy and not this-is-my-eighteenth-cup-of-coffee messy. And, boy, does Donut know what he’s talking about when it comes to suits. Back before basic Wash had worn suits on occasion, but he’d never noticed how poorly those fit him until now. This one isn’t tight across his chest and arms. The shirt collar isn’t scratching his neck. And Wash didn’t know it was possible for a suit to show off muscles.

_ “Soooooo.” _ Donut peeks over his shoulder, practically vibrating with excitement. “What do you think?”

“Oh. Ah… wow. I look- i-it’s great,” Wash stutters, momentarily tongue-tied. He turns to the pink soldier. “Donut, thank you. I don’t know what to say…”

Donut grins and swats him on the shoulder. “Oh, I just picked out the suit. The rest is  _ all you. _ ...Are you ready for this?”

Wash looks back at the mirror.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”

Donut hops up and down, clapping. He lets out a tiny, giddy shriek. “Oh, this is so  _ exciting! _ Quick! Selfie time!”

Donut grabs his camera from the desk and pulls Wash closer. “This is one for the scrapbook! Say,  _ hotties!” _

Laughter bubbles up Wash’s throat and the camera clicks.

The picture isn’t the best. It’s taken at an angle and one of Donut’s fingers is in the frame. The pink soldier’s sticking his tongue out. Wash’s eyes are closed. But he’s smiling- smiling like he hasn’t in a long time, caught mid-laugh.

Wash thinks it’s perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time on Blind Date Blind Side: The Ball.


	8. Chapter Eight

Tucker’s never been to a military ball. Back on earth, those kind of events were more for the people waging the war, rather than the people actually fighting in it. On TV the events were shown to consist of old white dudes standing in a circle with little champagne flutes saying, “My good, sir.” Or, wait, maybe that was Downton Abbey.

The point is, if there’s any type of military ball other than what Chorus has going on, Tucker doesn’t want to be a part of it.

The whole thing is like an old-fashioned high school prom meets V-Day. Everyone is here and Tucker means _everyone._ Kimball offered an open invitation to all the surrounding civilian settlements and they’d come, bearing their prized stashes of alcohol and a hundred varieties of casserole. More tables and crates had to continually be brought in to keep up with the ever-growing potluck buffet.

An entire hanger has been cleared out for Chorus’s party of the century. The space is packed with civilians and soldiers dressed in their absolute best, ranging from fine ball gowns to faded overalls. Tucker’s seen some impressive outfits made from curtains. There’s even a group of young soldiers decked out in glow sticks like they’re preparing for a rave.

Tucker has to hand it to the planning committee. They’ve done wonders with what little a planet drained of resources by war has to offer. The high ceiling is draped in pale white parachutes, giving the impression of billowing clouds and muting the harsh fluorescents. Large tinfoil stars dot the walls and a sea of balloons coat the ground. There’s even a dance floor complete with a disco ball (which may or may not be a basketball someone’s glued mirror shards to) and a DJ table.

From his hiding place behind a tall speaker in the far corner of the room, Tucker watches the guests steadily pour in and make their way to candlelit tables. He’s pretty sure ever card table and desk in Armonia is here, decorated with flowers and dressed in white tablecloths (so that’s where all the bed sheets went).

Reaching into his pocket, Tucker pulls out his crumpled ticket.

Table 241. Just like the last eight times he’s checked. Tucker huffs and shoves the paper back in his pants. He scans the crowd.

Far across the room, his table’s empty.

 _Okay, that’s fine. It’s fine._ His date just isn’t here yet. Should Tucker go to the table to wait? Then he’ll be able to pull out his date’s chair for them. Or, shit, will that make him look too eager? Maybe he should wait here. That way he can get a look at his date before they see him and he can work on his material. Fashionably late is a thing, right? But how late is fashionably late? Five minutes? Ten minutes? And does that countdown begin when his date sits down or when the event starts? Fucking Christ, why does everything have to be so complicated?

“Oh, _heeeeeeey,_ Tucker.”

“Jesus shit!” Tucker wheezes. He whips around, only to curse again when he finds Donut standing approximately two inches from his face. “W-T-Fuck, man?!”

“You’re looking rather sharp this evening,” Donut says, all smiles. The pink soldier doesn’t seem phased by the close quarters.

“Um, thanks?” Tucker shuffles back a bit until he’s not tasting Donut’s cologne when he breathes. “You look… nice… also. Yeah.”

“Oh, this old thing?” Donut scoffs, brushing off the shoulder of his suit with a flair. “I just wear this when I don’t care how I look!”

“Right…” Tucker says and glances over his shoulder at his still vacant table. “So… did you come with a date? I’m a little busy right now…”

Donut throws back his head and laughs. “Of course! But, see, I just wanted to talk to you.” There’s something threatening about the way Donut’s smile continues to grow as he speaks. _“Friend to friend.”_

“Uhhhh,” Tucker says intelligently, as a heavy feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. “Sure, I guess. What’s up?”

Donut cocks his head, smile never wavering. “I just wanted to say that we should be… careful… with our words in the future.”

“I-” Tucker starts. He blinks. “What?”

“Oh, you know,” Donut says airily. “Try and make sure jokes among friends don’t become jokes on friends.”

Donut leans in closer, voice dropping in a very un-Donut-like way that has Tucker backed up against the speaker caging him in.

“Because words can _hurt,_ Tucker. And I think we should _keep that in mind_ next time we - _I don’t know_ \- give someone a hard time for not having a date.”

“I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tucker says, even as his last conversation with Wash plays out in his head. Tucker feels about two inches tall.

“Hm, well,” Donut says, pulling back. He pats Tucker on the shoulder just a bit harder than necessary. “Keep it in mind.”

The man gives a final cheery smile before turning and sauntering away. Tucker’s left staring after him as the pink soldier disappears into the crowd.

“Did I… just get threatened by _Donut?”_ Tucker says aloud.

His mind races. There’s no way Donut should know about the shit show in the mess hall. The only person Tucker’s told is Carolina and she’s not one to gossip. Does that mean Wash said something? Tucker didn’t even know Wash and Donut hung out. After all, there was the whole Wash-straight-up-attempting-murder-fuckery hanging over the two. Though, that always seemed to be a bigger issue for Wash than Donut.

 _Holy. Fucking. Shit._ Is _Donut_ Wash’s date? No fucking way. Tucker would have seen that coming.

“Hello, Tucker.”

“Jesus fucker!” Tucker hisses, whirling on Caboose who’s somehow materialized beside him in the last four seconds. “Would people stop doing that?!”

“Oh, yeah, I hate it when people do that thing you are talking about,” Caboose says, nodding earnestly. “Do you have any fuses?”

“Why do you need- no, I don’t have any fuses,” Tucker huffs. “You better not be using them to make friendship bracelets again.”

“Did you check your pockets?”

“I’m not carrying fucking fuses in my suit pockets! What are you even doing here? I thought you were off helping the planning committee.”

Caboose brightens. “Yes! They need fuses.”

“Somehow, I doubt that.”

“But first, I wanted to see Agent Washington’s date.” Caboose leans in and adds in a conspiratorial whisper, “Did you hear about Wash’s date?”

“No,” Tucker groans, trying to peek around Caboose at table 241. “And I don’t ca- WHAT.”

Tucker’s going to have whiplash from all this snapping around his head has been doing lately.

Tucker grabs Caboose’s shirt. _“You know who Wash’s date is?”_ He croaks breathlessly.

Despite all the sleuthing Tucker has done, he admittedly never thought to ask Caboose.

Caboose nods sagely. “They do not have eyes.”

Yeah, this is why he didn’t ask Caboose.

“Don’t. Have. Eyes,” Tucker repeats, eye twitching.

Caboose shrugs. “Yeaaaah, I thought it was weird too. But I wanted to see them. I have never seen someone with no eyes before. Wait. Is that rude? Using my eyes to see someone with no eyes? Should I cover my eyes when I look?”

Something clicks in Tucker’s brain.

“Caboose,” Tucker says slowly, hardly daring to breathe. “Are you talking about a _blind date?”_

“Yes!” The blue soldier agrees. He looks around before leaning in close to whisper, “And Carolina made them that way. So I am also maybe hiding from her because I want to keep my eyes. I need them for important things, Tucker. Like hugs. And making sandwiches.”

Caboose starts explaining how he’d tried to make a sandwich with his eyes closed just to see if he could and how it wasn’t his fault the stove was covered in peanut butter. But Tucker doesn’t hear a word of it. He’s too busy translating Caboose-speak into actual English. His heart is in his throat as he tries to figure out if what he’s hearing is right, or just a byproduct of his wishful thinking.

Wash has a blind date.

Wash has a blind date set up by Carolina.

Wash has a blind date set up by Carolina _just like Tucker._

“Oh okay, bye, Tucker!” Caboose calls after him as Tucker hoofs it across the room.

* * *

 

Carolina and Kimball are already at their table, smiling over glasses of wine. Tucker catches the edge of their table as he skids to a halt, rattling the dishware and almost upending their drinks.

“Oh, Captain Tucker,” Kimball says, steadying her glass. “Is everything-”

“I could kiss you right now,” Tucker blurts out, staring at Carolina with an awe usually reserved for wonders of the world.

Carolina makes a face. “Please don’t,” she says, but a smile ghosts across her lips.

“It's him, isn’t it?” Tucker presses.

This time she can’t hide her grin. “You two have fun, okay?” She says with a wink.

“You are a goddess,” Tucker marvels.

“Uh-oh,” Kimball smirks, “Am I going to have to fight for your hand, ‘Lina?”

“Oh, fuck, I mean hi, Kimball,” Tucker says quickly. “You look good too.” Then to Carolina. “Is he here yet?”

“Any minute now.”

“Shit, I gotta go-” Tucker bolts from the table only to come flying back a moment later. “I owe you big time, holy shit, thank you-”

“Go!” Carolina and Kimball laugh together.

“Right, right. Yeah. Bye!”

Tucker’s beginning to appreciate all the time Wash made him spend on that damn obstacle course at the crash site. Those skills are coming in handy now as the teal soldier dodges tables and chairs, and weaves around startled couples.

He almost faceplants into table 241, but he gets there. Tucker gives one last frantic look around to make sure Wash didn’t see that display and drops into his chair.

Tucker heaves a breath. _Holy mother of fuck, this is happening. It’s really happening._ His heart is racing and his leg won’t stop bouncing. _Okay, cool. Be cool._

Tucker straightens his suit jacket. He crosses his legs. He folds his hands on the table and uncrosses his legs. He runs a hand over his hair, straightens the silverware, and crosses his legs again. God, he’s fidgeting like Caboose in a gun safety course. _Chill out. Be casual._ All he has to do is pretend that disaster of a conversation with Wash never happened. He can do that.

Tucker leans back in his chair, arms behind his head as he zeroes in on the doors to the hanger as the guests pour in.

Before Tucker can finish mentally debating whether or not pulling out a date’s chair is cliché, the crowd parts and there’s Wash.

_Hot fucking damn._

Tucker’s always thought Wash was hot, albeit in a messy way with the eye bags and hair that sticks up no matter what the Freelancer does to tame it. But listen, nobody's going to look great fighting a planet-wide civil war. Even Tucker knows he looks like relative shit on his best days. That’s just a reality of war. Still, Wash has always had some above average hotness going on despite all that.

But this is on a whole new level.

Tucker’s long appreciated suits, but this one deserves an award for the way it’s showing off the Freelancer’s biceps. And his beach-messy hair is something straight out of a magazine. Wash deserves to be on a red carpet somewhere, not a glorified garage. But that’s not what Tucker’s most struck by.

It’s Wash himself.

The man’s features are softer than usual. His gaze isn’t that of a hardened soldier staring down the barrel of a gun. Of course, that person is still there. But his eyes are lighter; curious and alive as he scans the decorated hanger in awe.

Donut comes up beside him. Tucker can’t hear what the pink soldier says, but when Wash smiles it’s more genuine than Tucker’s ever seen before. That smile is real, and Tucker feels a rush of jealousy at Donut being able to make Wash look like that.

Wash sweeps the room with his eyes and Tucker finally remembers to pick his jaw up off of the floor, fighting the urge to hide under the table. Wash doesn’t see him though. He’s distracted by Donut’s hand on his arm. They talk a little longer before Donut makes a shooing motion towards the tables.

Tucker’s pulse begins to race again. Wash pulls out his ticket and starts to walk Tucker’s way, eyes on his paper.

Two tables away, he finally looks up and catches sight of Tucker.

For a moment, the muted chatter of the room fades and it’s just the two of them, frozen in place and eyes locked as neither even breathes.

Then sound returns, and Wash makes a beeline for the table.

“What are you doing here?” Wash demands in a low hiss. His expression is suddenly guarded.

“Nice to see you too, Wash,” Tucker says, suave as a motherfucker.

Wash blows out a harsh breath. “Listen, I’m not in the mood,” he says, looking back at his ticket. “I’m in the wrong place. I’m looking for table-”

“241,” Tucker supplies.

Wash freezes. Ever so slowly he looks back up at Tucker.

“Y-yeah,” Wash says, swallowing.

“You’re in the right place.”

“...what?” The question is breathless.

_Here it is._

“I’m your date, dude,” Tucker says slowly, savoring every word. He tries to contain the smile fighting its way to his lips and fails miserably. “I’m your blind date.”

A beat of silence. Then two. Then,

Wash bristles.

“This is- this is all a joke then?” Wash seethes. “This is all just a big _joke_ to you? Well. Forgive me if I’m _not laughing.”_

Tucker’s blood runs cold. “Wash, n-”

“Yeah, it’s very _fucking_ funny,” Wash snaps, scrubbing his hands over his face. “Go laugh with everyone. Tell them you got me.”

“Wash,” Tucker gulps, mouth suddenly dry. His words stick in his throat - he can’t get them out fast enough. “N-no, it’s-it’s not like that-”

“Save it, Tucker,” he snarls, words dripping with venom as he lifts his head, glaring a hole through Tucker. His ticket crumples in his grip.

Before the teal soldier can speak though, Wash heaves a shuddering breath. The fury in his features fades as his face falls.

“I thought you were better than this.” Wash’s voice is soft, wounded.

He turns and stalks away. Before long it’s a run, and Tucker can only watch as Wash presses through the crowd and bolts from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: the conclusion, followed by an epilogue.


	9. Chapter Nine

The hall outside the hanger is a river of guests. It sweeps towards the doors in a noisy rush, surging like the tide as everyone heads for their tables. Shouldering past civilians and soldiers alike, Wash struggles against the current as wave after wave of guests threatens to drag him back. But if Agent Washington is anything, it’s a fighter.

_ And a coward.  _ Being a coward shouldn’t take this much effort, he thinks, as he trips over someone’s shoes. He’s bumped and jostled from every side, but Wash hardly pays any attention. Eager voices, laughter, and even singing echo off the walls with an eerie resonance. The air is thick with other people’s joy and Wash can’t quite fill his lungs. 

_ You should have known better. _

How many people knew about this? How many people saw? How much of the laughter bouncing through the halls is directed at him? 

Wash’s face burns.  _ It’s your own damn fault.  _ Clenching his jaw, he ducks his head and pressed on through the crowd.

Ahead an emergency exit sign glows like a light on a distant shore, giving him the strength to fight the flood. Wash doesn’t stop. He blows through the door and slams it behind him. The resulting  _ bang  _ reverberates through the deserted stairwell.

Wash pressed his back against the door and grinds his palms into his eyes. The noise of the hall is still audible, but it’s muted enough that he can hear himself think. 

That doesn’t help much.

_ So fucking gullible.  _ That’s what they’d called him during the Project. He was the one always falling for the jokes, always putting his foot in his mouth. These days he was supposed to know better.

_ You fell for it. _

The thought crawls down his throat and buries itself in his chest, leaving him sucking in air through gritted teeth.

His fists connect with the door.

_ “FUCK!” _ He yells, voice cracking.

The echo rattles off the concrete walls. Even this empty stairwell feels too crowded. Wash pushes off the door and heads for the stairs. There’s no destination in mind, just a need to get as far away from this nightmare as possible. Pursued by the slap of his shoes on each step, Wash doesn’t realize how high he’s climbed, until he hits another door and throws it open.

The cool night air hits his face as Wash staggers outside. Bracing his hands on his knees, he hangs his head, panting at the concrete. But it’s not the climb that’s got him gasping for breath. The thoughts beat against the inside of his skull with all the subtlety of an icepick.  _ A big fucking joke, just like the rest of your damn life. You fell for it hook, line, and sinker. So stupid. Such a- _

“Uh…”

Reality returns, razor sharp. Wash’s breathing hitches and he looks up. 

A group of cadets stands huddled around an air conditioner unit turned makeshift table and they’re staring at him with eyes the size of warthog tires. 

The silence is palpable. Neither party moves. Wash knits his brow, trying to put together why everyone looks like they’re shitting ballistic missiles when his eyes fall on the contents of their table. The kids have at least six bottles of hard liquor between them. And those definitely aren’t cigarettes they’re smoking.

Inch by inch, Wash rises to his full height. 

“You have,” he says in his best commanding officer voice, “to the count of three to get that shit out of my sight. One-”

Two never comes because just like that, the roof is empty save for a few soldier-shaped dust clouds and some scattered beer cans. The door slams shut and Wash listens as the sounds of their frantic escape down the stairs fade away.

Wash sighs, shoulders slumping. He wanders over to the edge of the building and leans heavily against the rail. Below, the base sits dark and empty. The usual buzz of energy is only a memory now that the entire army is gathered in the hanger below. Every so often, the breeze will carry with it the faintest trace of music.

Wash drags a hand down his face.

What’s everyone doing right now? Laughing? Slapping each other on the back in congratulations for a prank well played? Tucker’s probably entertaining his real date by mimicking Wash’s expression when he finally figured out the joke. 

His cheeks burn, in anger as well as humiliation. He curls his hands in his hair, messing up all of Donut’s hard work. 

Wash made it so  _ easy  _ for them. Dangle the prospect of affection in front of him and he’s yours to toy with.

He pushes off the rail and begins to pace the roof, hands curled into fists at his sides.  _ You’ve only got yourself to blame. Getting your hopes up like that. _

“God- _fucking_ -dammit!” Wash snarls. He rears back and kicks an empty beer, sending it skipping and clattering across the roof. Chest heaving, he looks out over the lonely base.

Maybe he’ll go get his armor on - hide his shame behind an inscrutable helmet visor - and guard the wall for the rest of the night. Or the rest of his life. Because that’s what soldiers do.  _ That’s what people like you do. _

For now, though, Wash will stand here like a sentry watching the silent base. And he’ll try to convince himself the thought doesn’t hurt.

* * *

Wash is long gone by the time Tucker fights his way through the crowd. The final guests slip past him into the hanger, leaving Tucker staring down the empty hall with an equally empty feeling in his chest. Behind him, the music picks up and everyone begins to cheer. All Tucker hears is the racing of his heart after his sprint to the door and Wash’s words swirling around his head.

_ I thought you were better than this. _

Tucker wants to throw up. This is the biggest fuck up of his life, and that’s including joining the army. He’s got to find Wash, and find him  _ now. _ Tucker’s got to explain this is all wrong, it wasn’t supposed to end like this. They were supposed to slow dance or kiss or whatever normal people do these days.

_ You’ve really done it now, jackass,  _ Tucker thinks as he breaks into a run down the desolate hall.

The joy that had been racing through his veins only minutes before isn’t just a distant memory, it’s a dream. Sitting at the table waiting for Wash was the happiest he’d been in god knows how long, and now the moment is tainted, replaced by the shame and horror at the knowledge he just fucked up the best thing in his life and he’s only got himself to blame.

His shoes pounding against the floor, Tucker mentally scrolls through his list of Wash’s usual hiding spots. Definitely not their room. The armory’s locked up. Maybe the training room. Or one of the million unused storage rooms and stretches of rarely used hallway. The base is as good as a haystack and Tucker’s hope of finding the Freelancer in time to fix all this is dwindling.

The answer almost hits him in the face - literally.

A door to the hall swings open and a group of kids come tumbling out at full speed just as Tucker passes by. They just about plowing him over.

_ “Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” _ someone chants like a prayer.

“He’s going to kill us,” another wheezes, juggling armfuls of vodka.

At that moment one of the boys catches sight of just who they nearly trampled and lets out an embarrassingly high pitched squeak, immediately hiding something behind his back. But the wisps of smoke give him away. And the lingering scent of weed.

“Captain Tucker!” He quivers, “we’re not- this isn’t what it loo-”

“Agent Washington already gave us a talking to,” a girl from Simmons’ squad pipes up. “So-so-so we’re just going to, uh, get rid of all this. Yeah.”

“We didn’t drink any!” A boy offers up, unfortunately at the same time a half-empty bottle of booze rolls across the floor. The soldier next to him shuffles on his feet, creating an odd clinking sound. It’s the sound a pair of cargo pants might make when stuffed full of shot glasses.

Tucker doesn’t even blink.

“Where is he?” He demands.

The kids look at one another. Then, slowly, they point to the door they’ve just plowed through and the sign beside it reading ‘Roof Access.’

Tucker shoves past the bewildered cadets without a word and trudges up the stairs.

 

The door to the roof is ajar, rimmed with slivers of light as the moonlight creeps in. He reaches out to push it open but stops short, hand hovering in midair.

What’s he going to say? What’s he supposed to do? Wash won’t want to talk to him. And Tucker can’t blame him. Wash probably wants space right now - hence him storming out of the dance to hide out on the roof. 

Tucker sighs. Maybe he should just go. The best thing to do is to wait it out. Tomorrow he’ll see Wash and pretend like this never happened and hopefully, things can get back to some semblance of normal.

Tucker frowns.

No. He already tried ignoring the problem once. And look where that got him.

Taking a deep breath, Tucker opens the door and steps out onto the roof.

“Wash?”

“Go away.”

Wash doesn’t turn around. He hardly moves a muscle as he stands staring out across the horizon, where the distant lights of Armonia bleed into the inky night sky. His arms are crossed and he’s wrapped in shadow. Tucker can feel the tension radiating off the Freelancer from halfway across the roof.

Tucker swallows and takes a few tentative steps closer.

“Dude,” he sighs, “listen-”

“I don’t want to hear it.” Wash’s voice is the coldest Tucker’s ever heard it.

“You don’t understand,” Tucker plows forward, “I wasn’t-”

Wash rounds on him.

“WHY IS TORMENTING ME SO MUCH FUCKING FUN TO YOU?!” Wash shouts. “WHY CAN YOU LEAVE ME THE HELL _ALONE?!”_

Tucker takes a step back. His die in his throat, unable to escape even as his mouth hangs open.

Shining in the moonlight, tears brim in the Freelancer’s eyes, punching the air right out of Tucker’s lungs. 

Wash catches Tucker’s stare. The man quickly turns away, wiping at his eyes with his wrist.

“Just go,” Wash says, voice quiet. “Don’t you have a party to get back to?”

But Tucker doesn’t move. He stands there, eyes on the ground. The pit of his stomach is a black hole threatening to swallow him whole. And it takes several long moments, but eventually, he gets the words out around the lump in his throat.

“It wasn’t a joke.” His voice is pitifully small but that hardly matters right now.

Wash doesn’t turn around. “Whatever.”

Tucker takes a harsh breath. “No, dude, you’re not  _ listening.  _ You  _ were _ my date.”

The Freelancer barks out a laugh. “If that’s the case, I’m sorry to disappoint. Now, why don’t you go back to the ball instead of pretending like you care?”

Tucker digs in his heels. “No, not without you,” he says.

“You don’t need me there.” Tucker can feel Wash rolling his eyes. 

“Uh,” Tucker scoffs loudly. “Yeah, I do.”

Wash half turns around at that. He shakes his head at the ground.

“Why the hell,” he asks, “would you want someone like me at the ball?”

He says it like he doesn’t expect an answer. Like he honestly believes no one could ever want him. Like this whole thing isn’t even a surprise.

The next thing Tucker knows he’s shouting,

“BECAUSE I’VE BEEN CRUSHING ON YOU SINCE FOREVER, YOU DENSE BAG OF DICKS!”

* * *

The words echo across the concrete rooftop, freezing both of them like a winter wind.

Wash just stares. He isn’t sure what his own face is doing, but Tucker has an expression similar to those kids from earlier - like his whole life is flashing before his eyes and he’s got some serious regrets.

Tucker grabs the top of his head and buries his face in his arms.

“Ah, fuck, I’m sorry, fuck,” he groans and starts pacing. “That’s probably the last thing you want to hear right now. If you never want to speak to me again I get it - I’ve made everything weird. Feel free to punch me in the face if that helps. I fucking deserve it.”

Wash blinks. “Are you sure?”

“Yep, and I won’t dodge or try to block it either. One free shot to the kisser. You’ve probably wanted to do it since you met me.”

“Ah, n-no,” stutters Wash. “I meant, are you sure about the other thing?”

Tucker looks up. “Other thing?”

“The… thing. You said before.” Words are suddenly a lot more difficult than Wash remembers.

Tucker raises his eyebrows. “About me liking you?” He throws out his arms. “Fuck, yeah, I’m sure, dude!” 

The teal soldier grimaces. 

“I should have asked you to the dance like a fucking normal person. And that one time at dinner I was going to. But I panicked. And-and I just kept joking when I should have been talking, and now everything’s fucked and it’s my fault for being an emotionally constipated jerk. The end.”

“Oh,” Wash says intelligently. Then,  _ “Oh. _ You’re being serious.”

“Yeah, man,” Tucker says, shifting from one foot to the other. “I wouldn’t joke about something like that...or, I guess I would but not like  _ that _ .”

“Oh. You… really wanted to ask  _ me?”  _ The emphasis on the last part comes out all on its own. That probably says something about Wash, though nitpicking through the tangled mess of his psyche is not the priority right now. Especially when Tucker smiles. No, not just smiles. Smiles at  _ Wash, _ and Wash’s heart just about stops.

“Um, _ dude, _ ” Tucker says, shooting him an incredulous look. “I don’t know if you’ve seen yourself lately.”

Wash feels his face and neck turn scarlet. 

“This is all Donut,” he admits, eyes on his dress shoes.

“I’m not talking about the suit but still,  _ hot damn.  _ Please take fashion tips from Donut more often. I’m talking about, like, in general.”

“In general,” Wash repeats.

“You know,” Tucker shrugs, playing casual even as he fidgets. “Like,  _ everything.” _

Wash says like the highly intelligent battle strategist he is, “Oh.”

Then there’s just silence. Wash stares at Tucker. Tucker stares around the roof, refusing to meet Wash’s eye. The teal soldier stuffs his hands in his pockets. Then takes them out again and taps them against his thighs. Then folds them. And unfolds them. And folds them again.

“So,” Tucker says, biting his lip. “That’s a thing or whatever…. I’ll go if you want.”

There’s a feeling creeping over Wash and it’s familiar. It’s the same one from Donut’s room - the one he’d compared to the moment before jumping out of an airplane. Wash feels like he’s running towards the ledge at the back of the plane and while his every instinct screams at him to stop, something in his chest cheers him on.

Wash clears his throat. Tucker looks up.

“Well, I...” Wash wets his lips and tries again, this time looking Tucker dead in the eye. 

“I wanted to ask you too. To the ball, I mean.”

* * *

Tucker swallows hard, eyes widening. “Oh, Shit.”

Silence. Then,

“Really?” Tucker asks.

“Yes.” Wash leans back against the rail like all the strength’s gone out of him. 

After a moment’s hesitation, Tucker shuffles over and joins him.

For a while they just stand there, side by side, shoulders brushing. But neither pulls away.

Wash gives a paper thin laugh. “We’re a mess, aren’t we?” He’s relaxed now, but he looks tired.

Tucker gives a wane smile. “Kind of.”

Wash glances at him. “What happens now?”

“I don’t know,” Tucker shrugs. “Back to the dance?”

“I guess so.”

Tucker studies the Freelancer. “We don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

“I do,” Wash says quickly. “Want to, I mean. Even though the crowd. And there are fewer people on guard duty than usual. And nobody’s really armed. And I keep thinking about how if even a single threat got inside it would be a massacre... I still want to go.” Wash frowns. “I know that doesn’t make sense.”

“No, no, I get it,” Tucker assures him, turning to face Wash head on. “You want to go, so let’s go. And if it gets to be too much - or it turns out the party blows - we can bail. I’ll hit the buffet and stuff my pockets full of cocktail shrimp. You raid the bar. And we’ll take over the common room and have the good TV all to ourselves.”

Wash swallows, brow furrowing. “Tucker, you should be able to enjoy the dance without worrying about me.” His head droops and a guilty look crosses his face.

“And why shouldn’t you enjoy it?” Tucker prods. Then he adds, voice going low and soft. “Wash, I don’t just want to go to the dance. I want to go to the dance with _ you.” _

* * *

Wash doesn’t know when it happened but they’re suddenly a lot closer together than before. He doesn’t know if he leaned in or Tucker leaned in or if this whole time they’ve been edging closer together, like two planets caught in each other’s orbit. 

All Wash does know is that if he gets any closer their foreheads will touch. But that’s not really the intimate gesture Wash is thinking about right now. Tucker seems to have the same idea as his eyes flicker slowly back and forth between Wash’s eyes and his lips.

The Freelancer focuses all his energy on not fidgeting as the teal soldier leans in. Wash’s eyes slip shut. His heart is about to explode-

BOOM

The two jolt apart, blinking wildly.

Tucker looks out over the base. “What was-”

BOOM. Only a few buildings away, a flare of light rockets skyward. Wash’s heart is in his throat and his gut cold as he watches it rise, trailing smoke like a comet’s tail.

_ Missiles. Attack. Get everyone underground- _

CRACK. At the zenith of its ark, the object explodes, showering the sky with golden sparks. 

“Fireworks,” Wash breathes. A wave of relief washes over him with such force it almost sends him to his knees.

BOOM. Another firework ignites, exploding in a dazzling display of green.

Distant cheers erupt from the hanger as rockets continue to flare and explode with a window-rattling sound. It isn’t long before the sky is full of colorful sparks, washing the base in hues of red, orange, and blue.

“Oh, shit,” Tucker says as glitter begins to rain down. “Caboose found the fuses.”

Wash holds out a hand. Caught in the glow of the fireworks, the glitter shines like a shower of diamonds coating his palm. Silent as snow, it dusts everything in a glimmering light.

Wash stares in the direction of the firework blasts. “Why do you think it’s Cab- Oh.” 

Slightly heavier confetti begins to float down- white, thin, and a bit singed. Tucker reaches up and snatches one of the fluttering squares from the air. He brings it down and the pair inspect what he’s holding.

“Well,” Wash supplies. “Caboose did say something about the toilet paper being gone.”

Tucker snorts with laughter and looks out over the railing at the magnificent display covering the night sky.

“Okay, that’s actually pretty dope,” Tucker says.

Wash has to agree, following the teal soldier’s gaze,

And placing his hand on top of Tucker’s on the rail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you had as much fun reading this chapter as I did writing it. Next time, a fluffy epilogue.


	10. Chapter Ten

Wash doesn't even realize he’s tensed up. Not until Tucker says something. 

“You don't have to do this,” Tucker warns as they approach the hanger doors.

Wash answers without thinking. “Yes, I do.” 

Tucker stops in his tracks and that makes Wash stop too. They’re still holding hands as if afraid letting go with undo the events of the roof.

Tucker scrunches his brow. He opens his mouth as if to argue but stops. He takes a breath.

“Okay,” Tucker says slowly. “Why?”

Wash stares down the hall towards the hanger. The pulse of pop music rattles the ceiling lights and sends minute tremors vibrating through concrete beneath his shoes. The balloons have spilled out into the hallway, and Wash nudges one with his foot, sending it bouncing away.

“I want to know I  _ can _ do it,” Wash sighs.

“Do what?”

Even with eyes on the floor, Wash can feel Tucker’s stare. He shuffles on his feet. 

“...be normal?” Wash offers weakly. He shakes his head. “I don't know. Be like you, I guess. You - the reds and blues - make it look so  _ easy. _ I don’t think I’m built for that. And it’s stupid, but I keep trying anyw-”

“Wash.”

Wash doesn’t even flinch as the teal soldier’s hand comes up to cradle the side of his head, thumb brushing gently across his temple. Wash’s breathing does hitch. But it’s not out of fear. It’s the reminder that this is a thing now - they’re something now even if neither have any words for it. And it’s thrilling.

Tucker dips his head a bit to catch Wash’s eye. “Full disclosure? I’ve got my energy sword stashed in my pocket.”

Wash frowns. “You do?”

Tucker shrugs. “Carolina’s wearing two thigh holsters. Kimball’s dress has a bulletproof lining. And Sarge tried disguising his shotgun as a cane but he’s not fooling anybody.”

Wash presses his lips together in a sheepish smile. “I… have four knives in my sock.”

Tucker lets out a breathy laugh. “Good,” he says, dropping his hand. “I feel safer already.”

He tugs on Wash’s hand. 

“Come on,” Tucker says, “I have an idea.”

Wash lets Tucker lead the way, curious as the man tows him into the hanger. 

The room is spinning with the light of the disco ball as they reenter together. Inside, the party is in full swing and the dance floor is packed. Tables and chairs have been pushed against the walls to make room for the ever-growing mosh pit surrounding the DJ table. All around the room, dance styles range from couples salsaing to cadets headbanging like their lives depend on it. Everyone is having the time of their lives and that's all that matters.

A voice rings out over the wild chatter.

“Someone finally lock you two in a storage closet, or what?” 

Wash turns to find Grif leaning against the wall, nibbling on a sandwich from his heaping plate of food. Simmons elbows the orange soldier.

Tucker marches right past the pair, Wash in tow. “Eat my entire ass, Dexter.”

Grif looks the pair of them up and down appraisingly. Wash is suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that he and Tucker are still holding hands. 

But Grif only nods approvingly. “Suck a dick,” he says sagely.

“Oh, yeah?” Tucker calls back over his shoulder. “Well, maybe I will!”

Wash stares back at the reds as Tucker pulls him away. Grif looks to Simmons and lifts a hand, rubbing his fingers together. The maroon soldier begrudgingly pulls out his wallet.

The next thing Wash knows he’s on to the dance floor and the music is fading to something slow. Tucker offers his free hand to Wash and the Freelancer doesn’t even think before taking it.

Tucker suddenly appears unsure. “Um, listen,” he says, chewing his lip, “so, I have an idea. But if it sucks, it sucks and we can bail.” 

Tucker looks at the ground. “I know you have a lot going on. Like  _ a lot. _ And most of it sucks. But I’d really just like to make it… suck… a little less?” The teal soldier glances up. 

Wash’s mouth is dry. It’s hardly poetry, but Tucker’s words have his heart feeling feather-light. 

“Okay,” Wash breathes.

Tucker smiles, a wave of relief softening his features. “Okay,” he repeats. “Here.”

Tucker brings his hand to Wash’s shoulder, then takes Wash’s hand and moves it to his own waist. Wash lets himself be moved into position until they’re standing in front of each other, inches apart.

Wash knows the answer before he asks the question. He recognizes dance positions when he sees them. He's not that dense. “What are you…?”

“Watching your back,” Tucker says. Seeing Wash’s blank stare he continues, “Now if anybody comes up behind you, I’ll see them. And vice-versa, or whatever. You watch my back and I’ll watch yours.”

Wash swallows down the lump rising in his throat.  “I think I can do that.”

There a long pause. The music play but neither of them moves.

“Uh.” Tucker pulls a face. “In high school, this was always the part when the teacher broke in and told us to make room for Jesus. I’m not actually sure… I think we, like, sway? Or something? Maybe shuffle in a circle. Ah, it's whatever you want to do.”

“Whatever you want,” Wash echoes.

“Yep,” Tucker says, fidgeting awkwardly and looking everywhere except Wash. “Just, uh, just whatever, I guess-”

And before Wash can stop, and think, and lose the nerve; he leans in and presses his lips to Tucker’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the over the top fluff to make up for the emotional angst!
> 
> I went back through my notebook and found the original entry where I came up with this fic concept and outlined it from start to finish dated 3/26/18. I wouldn't start posting chapters for another five months, and now, over a year later here we are at the end! You guys have been awesome, making memes and freak out posts with each update :) Thank you for the support - and thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and critiques welcome!
> 
> Come say hi on Tumblr at [wordsysayswords](http://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com/)


End file.
